


Nazbol deserves better

by lizard_brains



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Found Family Dynamics, Gen, ancom is basically an older sibling to a teenage naz, ancom is enby and uses they/them, idk maybe i'll add more characters, parental abandonment, toxic family environments, will add tags as story goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:49:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24253123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizard_brains/pseuds/lizard_brains
Summary: Ancom couldn't just let this weirdo kid they just found wander around Ancapistan and eventually get himself in trouble.
Relationships: Ancom & Nazbol
Comments: 19
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i would be lying if i said this wasn't inspired by TooDumbToDie. both their fics are really good and i really liked how they portray nazbol, so here we go.

In the past three months of living on the outskirts of Ancapistan, Ancom has never had such conflicting feelings about the past as they had in that very moment. They didn’t even think about it, really. They were pretty quick to accept the fact that they left centricide, that the authoritarians were now left alone to dream of their wars, and that Ancap built Ancapistan, where they were now residing. Well, they couldn’t bear actually living in the epicenter of the capitalist hellhole, so instead they rented out an apartment in a poorer area on the outskirts. A lot of their neighbors were commuters, coming back tired from work every night, so they weren’t very interested in their ramblings about the evils of capitalism. They weren’t getting along with their neighbors at all, actually.

It’s because of that they experienced such a weird feeling of nostalgia and surrealism upon seeing a familiar face. They were coming home with their groceries, when they saw a teenager sulking on the sidewalk. He had two mismatched shoes, a dark blue shirt and an ushanka, although, unlike Tankie’s, it had a hammer and sickle inside a white circle instead of a star. Ancom recognized him as Nazbol, a kid they met a couple times, mostly on leftist meetups and such. He usually stuck by Tankie’s side, with Tankie often being dismissive or annoyed at his presence, although that never seemed to stop him. From what they remember his personality was an aesthetic combination of Nazi and Commie’s flashiest slogans and little actual substance. He was, most of the time, giggling about crime statistics, and it was strange seeing him in an aggravated mood.

They didn’t really think it through before approaching him.

“Nazbol?” he seemed to be startled by the sudden address, staring at them wide-eyed, but quickly turning back into annoyed disgust.

“What do you want, degenerate?” he shoved his hands in his pockets, drilling the ground in front of him with his eyes.

“What are you doing in Ancapistan?” Ancom continued the questioning, ignoring the meaningless insult.

“Standing around.”

“Where are your parents?” they didn’t actually want to know where the two authoritarians were, but they wanted to make sure Naz wasn’t just going to wander around Ancapistan and get into trouble.

There was no answer. Naz bowed his head down, but that didn’t stop them from seeing his lip wobble.

“Naz, what happened?” they tried to come a little closer, carefully.

“Nothing happened,” Nazbol snapped, looking at Ancom with resentment. “They used me, then said it was all a fluke and discarded me.”

Ancom’s empathy struck them like a bullet going right through their skull.

“So where are you planning to go now?” they reached into one of their bags with groceries and fished out a chocolate bar, which they offered to the kid.

Naz narrowed his eyes with suspicion and took the candy. After inspecting it, he looked back at Ancom.

“Is there some kind of trick?”

“No,” they laughed and flashed a reassuring smile back to Nazbol. “I just thought it’d cheer you up.”

He slowly turned his gaze back to the bar, and after unwrapping it he took a cautious bite.

“I’m not sure where to go, honestly,” he admitted after swallowing. “I was just going to wander around until… I don’t know. I haven’t thought it through much.”

“Well, it’s going to get dark,” they commented, looking at the last ghostly rays of the sunset. “It’s pretty dangerous out here at night.”

“Oh yeah, those n—”

Ancom shot him an intimidating look before he could finish, so he just looked away in embarrassment and stuffed his face with more chocolate.

“You could crash at my place tonight, if you want,” they continued in a friendly tone, and Nazbol seemed to weigh his options.

“Yeah, fine, I guess.”

He followed them into several alleys as they approached Ancom’s apartment bloc. The staircase leading up to their apartment on the third floor smelt vaguely of smoke, cheap alcohol and piss, and their door creaked when they opened it. The apartment itself was small, with the living room and the kitchen being fused. The stove was dirty, the counters old and battered. A single couch stood in the middle room, facing a boxy television. A pair of chairs and a small table were placed in the corner, across from the bedroom door which was ajar, revealing an old bed with a dirty mattress and a bunch of pride flags hung up all around the walls. A single potted plant stood on the window sill, which showed a beautifully disgusting view onto the merciless factories of Ancapistan.

Ancom put the groceries on the table and started unpacking them. Naz stared as the table got filled with an unholy combination of fresh vegetables and disgusting junk food. It seemed they only either ate like a degenerate junkie or a fucking rabbit. Nazbol squirmed a bit, but didn’t say anything, just shuffling awkwardly in one place. He looked over at the couch and suddenly felt the exhaustion in his legs. He spent the entire day wandering the streets of Ancapistan, right after fighting off the centrist. He wondered how he didn’t notice his tiredness earlier.

“Naz, you can sit down if you want.”

The voice caught him off-guard and he snapped back to Ancom. They seemed to look at him with concern and the realization of how tense his entire body was hit him.

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbled awkwardly and plopped down on the couch, propping up his head with his hand on one of the armrests and staring out the window at the street slowly going dark.

Ancom sighed. They didn’t realize, the kid was the authoritarians’, after all, he was probably as disciplined as them both, which wasn’t something Ancom was used to. Aren’t kids supposed to want to rebel, defy authority, do whatever they want? It was weird to see such a stuck-up kid. And again, Naz was usually the one to gleefully bring up some bullshit statistic or dogwhistle during leftist meetings and laugh as the other members would start yelling at him, so seeing him somberly stare with empty eyes was chilling.

They sat on the couch next to him, looking over in an attempt to decipher his facial expression. After failing to understand what exactly he was feeling, they reached for the remote and switched on the TV. They flickered between channels, seeing ad after ad, Ancap’s shit eating grin appearing on the screen as he showcased his new product replaced by a news reporter rapidly talking about some incident outside of town, that image being smudged as well by the insane face of Hoppean as he rattled off some racist crap on his late night show. Ancom glanced at Nazbol to see if the program caught his attention, but he just kept staring out of the window. They pressed the button again, only to be thrown onto a channel advertising some MLM scheme.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Naz?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he handwaved them, keeping to stare into one spot.

“Naz, I’m… worried,” Ancom tried to pick the best word they could but were still dissatisfied with their final choice. “You know, if you need someone to talk to, you can always talk to me.”

He slowly turned his head around to look at them. His expression was a mixture of distrust and played up contempt. Ancom saw right through those furrowed brows and frown and saw the anxiety and fear in his eyes.

“What would _you_ understand?”

His eyes looked weirdly glassy in the dim lighting.

“I could understand lots. I know what it’s like to be…” they gulped. “Used. Betrayed.”

“Really?” his hostility has completely vanished from his voice, and Ancom’s heart sank at the little glimpse of hope in this lost kid’s voice.

“Yeah,” they nodded carefully, fiddling with the edge of their skirt. “I’ve been used before. I’ve helped defeat opposing forces, kill those who stood in the paths of our shared goal. And after it was done, after the common enemy was gone, that was it. I was done for. Backstabbed.”

They heard a shaky breath and looked back at Nazbol, finding hot tears streaming down his face.

“Oh, come on,” they gently reached out and pulled him into a hug. “It’s okay, you’re going to be fine.”

He clutched onto them and cried into their chest, sobbing loudly into their hoodie. They patted his back comfortingly, waiting for him to let it all out. The sounds of the television comfortingly filled up the empty room, with the various ad jingles serving as a backdrop for poor child's waterfall of emotion. Ancom thought about how shitty his parents must've been for him to become this much of a mess. He had the right to be a mess, though, just like any other teenager who just wanted to be accepted by someone.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled after finally letting go, wiping off his tears with his sleeve. “It’s degenerate for men to cry.”

“No, it’s not, Naz,” they smiled at him softly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

Nazbol shifted a bit, clearly not being sold on that idea. Ancom guessed they’d just have to accept they may never drill that idea into his head.

“Anyway, it’s late,” they stood up from the couch. “You can sleep in the bed if you want. I don’t use it much anyway, I usually pass out on in the living room.”

He nodded and they walked over to the bedroom. They switched the light on, which was given off by a single light bulb hanging in the middle of the room. There was a wardrobe, a desk, and a small, creaky bed that stood under a window covered by small, translucent curtains. He walked over and sat on the bed, approximating how uncomfortable would it be to sleep in.

“Uh.. do you need pajamas or something?” they shifted in the doorway, assessing Naz’s expressions.

“No, I can sleep like this,” he responded, getting under the sheets. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” they smiled, ready to close the door. “Good night. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”

After the barrier between the two people shut, Nazbol was left alone with his own thoughts and the menacing degeneracy flags that covered the room wall to wall. He couldn’t stop the tears forming in his eyes again. It wasn’t degenerate to cry if no one saw, right? Nobody could _prove_ he’s weak if nobody saw. But he did already cry when somebody saw. Well, they were a degenerate anyway, so does it even count? He didn’t notice how suffocating his thoughts were until he inhaled sharply, shaking as he tried to stabilize himself. His mind wondered to how soundproof the door really was. If he listened closely, he could hear Ancom fumble with the groceries. They’d probably hear if he cried again. Would they just idly listen, or would they come in again to comfort him? He didn’t know which one was worse.

He turned to face the wall, ready for the bullets to start penetrating his flesh from behind. He would’ve liked for the execution to be carried out with the utter most brutality imaginable, as he felt most deserving of the guilty verdict. Guilty of not being good enough, guilty of being a nuisance, guilty of treason. All the possible faults spiraled in his head as he stared at the wall, trying to will a knife into existence to get stuck into his back for real this time, with real blood staining the white sheets for real, so that he can actually die instead of crawling away in shame and hiding out with some degenerate. He let out a quiet sob when he realized a mercy killing won’t come. Maybe if he pretended, he could find a refuge in losing consciousness for a few hours.

Eventually, he fell asleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the good news is that one of the parent punching scenes is already written. the other part is that i still have to write how to get to that point, so i cant make any promises yet

Nazbol clambered out of bed as the sunrays hit his face, annoyingly waking him up. He felt uncomfortable because of sleeping in his impromptu uniform, but he still got up and looked around. He quickly remembered his situation. Remembering yesterday also led him to remember the events that led him to his _situation_. He swallowed the lump in his throat at that thought, deciding to forget that for now. He was hungry. And a hungry compatriot-comrade (compatrade? comratriot?) wasn’t any good at all.

He waltzed into the kitchen, where he found Ancom cooking breakfast. There were some weirdly coloured sausages frying on the pan, with an omelet already sitting on a plate on a counter.

“Good morning,” they hummed, taking the plate into their hands. “Breakfast?”

“What the hell is that?” Nazbol eyed the plate with distrust.

“Tofu sausages and a vegan omelet.”

“How does that work?”

“Well, it’s pretty simple, actually. You just need a few more ingredients but generally speaking you take—”

“I don’t actually wanna hear it,” Naz cut them off, taking the plate into his hands and examining it more closely.

“It doesn’t taste differently, I promise,” they assured, setting a fork and a knife onto the table.

He finally ended up on settling on being okay with veganism this one time, sitting down and digging in. They didn’t lie, the difference in taste wasn’t substantial enough for him to notice or complain. Ancom sat across from him, eating a tube of Brazilian BBQ Pringles and drinking a Capri Sun.

“Why are you eating that?” Naz seemed to look disgusted by their ‘breakfast’. “Junk food is just used as instant gratification for the workers, so that they get addicted to stuffing their face with when they’re depressed instead of pulling themselves up by their bootstraps and starting the proletarian revolution! You’re endorsing the company by buying this crap.”

“Who said I bought it?”

Nazbol froze in thought. On one hand, defying authorities by breaking laws and stealing is moral degradation, on the other hand defying the jewish capitalist authority was okay, so he just shrugged it off.

“It’s still just soy-infested degeneracy used to undermine western culture.”

“Dude, you’re eating more soy right now than I ever had in the past week.”

Nazbol’s eyes widened as he stared at his plate. That’s right, vegan shit. He dropped his utensils at once and looked at Ancom with distress.

“You fucking poisoned me!”

“It’s not poison, it’s literally just a plant,” they looked like they had to direct all their efforts towards not breaking out in laughter.

“Shit, I can already feel the feminizing effects on my body,” he frantically patted himself down. “I’m going to become a fucking woman!”

Ancom started laughing, to which Nazbol shot them an angry look.

“Why are you laughing, you fucking degenerate? Because of you I’ll get feminized into a degenerate cuck like you!”

“I wish soy was feminizing,” Ancom sighed, taking a last sip of their Capri Sun. “If you don’t wanna eat it, you don’t have to.”

The ‘soy-infested degeneracy’ got thrown in the trash, and he had to settle for drinking some fresh tea.

“You didn’t put soy in the tea, did you?” he eyed the drink and then Ancom.

“How would I do that?” Ancom snorted, washing the dirty dishes.

Naz took a sip of the hot beverage, enjoying the familiar taste of mint.

“So, where do you plan to go now?” the cold water made a satisfying sound as it hit the plate and washed away the unneeded dirt, paired with the noises of them scrubbing the plate clean.

“I…” the question was not unexpected, but still left Nazbol’s mind blank. “I don’t know,” the next part he said quietly, almost under his breath. “Could I stay with you for a bit longer?”

“Sure,” the answer came out immediately, which was way quicker than Naz expected. He was used to having to plead other people to tolerate his presence.

“You’ll need some more clothes then. Especially since these aren’t in best shape,” Ancom continued, turning around. Neither of them noticed yesterday, but in the broad daylight it was clear that his clothes were messed up from the centrist incident. “Let’s go for some shopping.”

The way they gleefully smiled told Nazbol they didn’t mean _actual_ shopping.

They waltzed into the clothing store as if they were a trillionaire who was about to buy out the entire stock. Naz was pretty sure they didn’t even take a wallet with them.

They headed straight for the branded, super expensive sections at the back of the store, grabbing all the clothes they could possibly get their hands on. Nazbol had no idea why Ancom was being so consumerist, but he was certain he wasn’t going to engage in that type of degeneracy. He slowly walked around the store, intimidated by the wide selection of weird prints of varying quality. He picked out a couple shirts and pants from the cheaper sections, but a stand caught his eye, the sign above it displayed a letter ‘H’ in fancy cursive font. He walked over to the rack and looked through it. His gaze stopped at a white, oversized T-shirt. The price tag showed an unholy amount of money. The print said “daddy’s little” and a bundle of sticks right in the middle of the shirt. He was so mesmerized by it he didn’t notice Ancom come up behind him.

“What are you— oh. Hoppean’s clothing line?” they physically cringed. They weren’t sure whether the target audience of this was the fascists, or whether this was a very crude a derogatory way to pander to the gays. They remembered one time when they were high as shit, they turned on the TV and the first thing that came on was an interview with the man himself, where he explained the intricate meaning behind his “art”. Ancom knew it was their time to check out of the sentence when the first thing he said was something about “post-irony”, so instead they just got more high with Hoppean’s voice serving as a backdrop for their uncontrollable thoughts.

They tried to yank the shirt out of the rack in order to divert Naz’s attention so he didn’t discover the racist designs available, but they were stopped by him taking it back with a sadness in his eyes.

“It’s too expensive,” Nazbol said with a sigh.

“Who said we’re going to pay?” they smirked mischievously, taking the shirt out of his hands and throwing it into the pile of clothes he just noticed they had. Nazbol still didn’t understand what they were planning, since they probably had over thirty items in their hands already.

They threw the other shirts and jeans Naz had into the pile too, and confidently walked over to the changing rooms, flashing a friendly smile to the employees they passed.

They dragged Nazbol straight into the furthest changing room, taking off their hoodie to reveal their horrid “you are not immune to propaganda” crop top, and a backpack that was flat enough to fit unnoticed under their huge hoodie.

They started stuffing the clothes he picked out into the bag.

“Are you going to steal all of that?” he eyed the huge pile now sitting on the floor in a strangled up mess.

“No. We’re going to leave them here to alleviate suspicion. Like we just didn’t find anything good enough and left.”

Naz still wasn’t sure what to feel of the crime part of all of this. On one hand, capitalism is degenerate so stealing from big companies was fighting said degeneracy, but on the other hand a part of him couldn’t help but feel uneasy about defying authority.

They grabbed the expensive designer shirt and almost stuffed it with the others, but Nazbol snatched it out of their hands.

“Dumbass,” he said, pointing to the circular security tag latched onto the shirt. “It’ll alert security if we leave the store with it.”

Ancom smiled mysteriously and took the shirt out of his hands without saying a word. They dramatically raised it up and dropped it onto the floor. The tag hit the floor with a bang and fell into two parts, disconnecting from the shirt.

“It’s that easy..?” he stared in disbelief as they picked it up and stuffed it into the backpack. Once all the items were in, they slipped it back on and covered it with their hoodie.

“Ok, now, don’t worry or look nervous when we leave. Don’t overthink it, it’ll only raise suspicion, just act normal.”

Nazbol was about to cut in with how he actually wasn’t nervous at all, and how of course he knows not to act nervous or overthink, he isn’t stupid, but his stomach was filled with a weird feeling of anxiety at the thought of breaking the law, so he kept his mouth shut.

They walked out of the store, waving at the worker they ran in at the exit. The alarms didn’t go off, a buff security guard didn’t dropkick them and confiscated their belongings, no one even batted an eye and they were freely standing outside.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?” Ancom said gleefully on the walk back home.

“I don’t know,” he responded after a pause.

“Well, you got the expensive T-shirt without contributing to the capitalists’ wealth.”

“That’s true,” his face lit up a bit, which made them satisfied enough to continue the rest of the walk in comfortable silence.

Nazbol sat on the couch, flicking through channels on TV, finding himself cornered by millions of the same commercials and weirdly unauthentic news speakers and show hosts. He put down the remote in defeat and stared into his own reflection in the black screen.

“You don’t have video games, do you?” he asked, looking back at Ancom who was trying to sort through their fridge.

“No, sorry,” they said as they dumped a large plate of week-old weird-looking lasagna into the trash, leaving them with more dirty dishes.

He huffed in disappointment, switching on the TV again. He stared absentmindedly at an ad for some supernatural movie coming out next month. A UFO appeared on screen, sending a blue ray of light to lift up a woman off the ground and swallow her into the body of the spacecraft.

His eyes lit up with an idea.

“Ancom!” he flung himself on the back of the couch, putting on his best pleading face. “Can we visit Posadist?”

“Why?” they were caught of guard by the request, turning around to face him, perplexed.

“I know for a fact he has a playstation and Call of Duty, he wouldn’t mind if I borrow it from him. Plus, I haven’t seen him in a long time. Please?”

They took a second to process and shrugged.

“Okay, I guess?”

His mouth stretched into a joyful smile, and they reconsidered whether it was a good decision to subject themselves to two wackies at once with no other balancing force to assist them.

They sighed, watching Nazbol getting excited. They guessed they’ll have to wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yayyyyyy we're seeing posadist next chapter
> 
> also i have no idea what's going on with ancom's gender bc projection is telling me they're afab enby but also amab enbies are very valid and deserve rep so idk they'll just be left ambiguous ig

**Author's Note:**

> nazbol sleeping in a room full of prideflags is like that one image of the "t-posing to assert dominance"


End file.
